Daphne scrambled out of the bed, dragging the top sheet with her. She wrapped it around her body like a toga, tucking the end securely under her armpit.

She scanned the floor for her clothes.

Her silver dress lay in a heap near the door. It was ruined. Stained with mud, rain, and tequila. One strap was broken.

"I need to go. I need to fix this," she muttered frantically to herself, picking up the dress and realizing it was unwearable.

Charlton was leaning against the doorframe. He was wearing gray sweatpants now, holding a small espresso cup. He took a sip, watching her panic with detached interest.

"Fix what, exactly?" he asked. "The truth?"

Daphne found one of her heels under a chair. She couldn't find the other one.

"It was a mistake! I was drunk!" Daphne insisted, turning to him. "You know I wouldn't... we don't do that. We're us."

Charlton raised an eyebrow. He set the espresso cup down on a coaster.

"You didn't seem to think it was a mistake at 2 AM," he said.

"I don't remember 2 AM," she lied.

Flashes were returning, though. His hands in her hair. Her mouth on his neck. The desperate need to feel something other than rejection.

Charlton reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote.

"My security system records the living room and the hallway," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

Daphne froze. She clutched the sheet tighter.

"You wouldn't."

He pointed the remote at the giant OLED screen mounted on the wall. He clicked a button.

The screen flickered to life.

The footage was grainy but clear. It showed the entryway of the penthouse.

The elevator doors opened. Charlton and Daphne stumbled out.

On screen, Charlton was trying to guide her toward the guest room. He was being gentle. Respectful.

On screen, Daphne stopped. She grabbed the lapels of his tuxedo jacket.

She pushed him against the wall.

Real-life Daphne gasped.

On screen, she stood on her tiptoes. She kissed him. It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was aggressive. It was demanding.

Charlton's hands hovered in the air for a moment, hesitant, before they settled on her waist.

On screen, Daphne pulled back slightly. Her face was visible. She looked desperate.

"Make me forget him, Charlie," the audio picked up clearly. "Please. Just make it stop hurting."

Then she kissed him again, pulling him toward the bedroom.

Real-life Daphne felt all the blood rush to her face. She covered her eyes with her hands.

"Turn it off! Turn it off right now!"

Charlton paused the video. The image froze on her face-eyes closed, lips parted, an expression of raw hunger.

"You initiated, Daph," he said. His voice dropped an octave. "I just... obliged."

He walked over to her. He reached out and gently pulled her hands away from her face.

She refused to look at him. She stared at his chest.

"I'm not Campbell," he said. "I don't regret things I want."

Daphne looked up at him then. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

His eyes were searching hers. There was a question there, something vulnerable beneath the playboy mask.

She pulled away, stepping back. Her defense mechanisms slammed into place.

"This ruins everything," she said, her voice shaking. "Our friendship... it's the only stable thing I have."

Charlton's face hardened. The vulnerability vanished.

"Our friendship was built on you dating a moron," he said. "That foundation is gone."

He walked to the massive walk-in closet. He disappeared for a moment and came back holding a crisp white dress shirt.

He tossed it to her.

"Shower. Eat. We have a situation to discuss."

His tone was purely business now. The shift gave Daphne whiplash. One minute he was the lover, the next he was the CEO.

"What situation?" she asked, catching the shirt.

"Just get cleaned up," he said.

Daphne nodded, retreating toward the bathroom.

She closed the door and locked it. She leaned against the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

Her mascara was smeared under her eyes. Her hair was a bird's nest.

She looked closer.

A hickey, dark and purple, was blooming on her collarbone.

She touched it. It was tender.

Outside the bathroom, Charlton stood in the middle of the room.

He looked at the frozen image on the screen. He looked at the way Daphne was holding him, as if he were the only thing keeping her from falling off the earth.

He selected the file.

Delete.

Confirm Deletion.

The screen went black.

He exhaled a long breath, his hands shaking slightly as he put the remote down. He would never let anyone see that. But he needed her to see it. He needed her to know that she wanted him, even if she wouldn't admit it yet.

Daphne stood under the hot spray of the shower. She scrubbed her skin with a loofah until it turned pink, trying to wash away the feeling of the gala, the alleyway, and the confusion of the morning.

The steam filled the shower stall, thick and white.

It triggered a memory.

Flashback. Eight years ago.

The library at St. Jude's Prep. It was raining then, too.

Young Daphne sat hidden behind a stack of encyclopedias, sobbing. She was sixteen. She had just been cut from the terrifyingly competitive summer intensive at the Royal Ballet.

Footsteps approached.

She curled into a tighter ball, expecting a teacher to scold her.

"You're getting snot on the Britannica," a voice drawled.

She looked up. It was Charlton. He was wearing his blazer carelessly, tie askew.

He didn't ask why she was crying. He didn't offer empty platitudes.

He just handed her a pristine, monogrammed handkerchief.

"Dry your eyes, Flynn. Red isn't your color."

He sat down next to her on the floor, opening a comic book, acting like sitting on the dusty library floor was the most natural thing for a Bernard heir to do.

A few minutes later, Campbell walked by the aisle. He saw Daphne crying.

He paused. He looked at his watch. Then he saw the headmaster talking to a donor near the entrance.

Campbell turned and walked toward the donor, flashing his winning smile, leaving Daphne in the dust.

End Flashback.

Daphne snapped back to the present. She turned off the tap.

She realized with a jolt that Campbell had always been transactional. Even back then. She had just been too blind to see it.

She dried off and put on Charlton's shirt. It was huge on her, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. She rolled up the sleeves.

She lifted her arm to smell the collar. It smelled like sandalwood and safety.

She hated that she liked it.

She walked out into the living area.

Charlton was standing by the kitchen island, talking on his phone. He was speaking rapid-fire French.

"Non, c'est inacceptable. Bloquez tout," he commanded.

He hung up as she entered.

"Lawyers," he explained briefly.

He didn't smile. He slid an iPad across the marble counter toward her.

"Campbell gave an exclusive to 'The Daily Look' this morning. It went live ten minutes ago."

Daphne felt her stomach drop. She walked over and looked at the screen.

The headline screamed in bold black letters:

BROCK HEIR CHOOSING DUTY OVER RECKLESS ROMANCE

She read the first paragraph.

Sources close to the couple say that Campbell Brock ended the engagement due to Flynn's increasing emotional volatility and erratic behavior. Rumors of infidelity on her part have plagued the couple for months...

"Infidelity?" Daphne gasped. "I never looked at another man!"

"Read the next line," Charlton said.

Flynn was seen leaving the gala with notorious playboy Charlton Bernard, confirming suspicions of a long-standing affair.

"He's spinning the narrative," Charlton said, his voice hard. "He's using last night against you. He's making you the villain so he looks like the noble victim who had to choose the 'good girl' Kandice."

"How did he know?" Daphne asked. "About us leaving together?"

"He didn't," Charlton said. "He guessed. And we just gave him the proof he needed."

Daphne sank onto a barstool. She felt weak.

"My career," she whispered. "ABT has a morality clause. They won't keep a scandal-ridden principal dancer who is cheating on America's Golden Boy."

"They won't," Charlton agreed brutally. "You're already trending as a 'Gold Digger' and a 'Cheat'."

Daphne felt the walls closing in again. The panic from the night before returned, sharper this time.

"I have nothing," she said. "No family. No fiancé. No job. I'm going to be cancelled."

Charlton walked around the island. He stood directly in front of her.

He placed both hands on the counter, one on either side of her, boxing her in.

"You have me," he said.

He held her gaze. His eyes were intense, demanding she believe him.

"But I'm the 'reckless playboy', remember?" Daphne laughed bitterly. "Being with me just confirms the rumor. It proves Campbell right."

"So I'm doomed," she concluded, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Not if we change the narrative," Charlton said, a glint appearing in his eye. A gambler's glint.

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick document bound in blue paper.

He dropped it on the counter next to the iPad.

"Have you ever heard of the Bernard Family Trust Marriage Clause?"

Daphne stared at the document. The words "Last Will and Testament" were embossed in gold on the cover.

"Marriage Clause?" she repeated.

Charlton walked to the coffee machine. He poured two cups, his movements precise and deliberate.

"My grandfather was old-fashioned," he said, bringing the mugs over. "He didn't trust me. He thought I was too wild."

He set a black coffee in front of her.

"I don't get access to the two billion dollar principal of my trust until I marry," he lied.

Well, it was a partial lie. He could access the money at thirty. But he wasn't going to tell her that.

"And stay married for at least one year," he added.

Daphne laughed nervously. It was a jagged sound.

"You? Married? You're allergic to commitment. You break out in hives if a girl leaves a toothbrush at your place."

"I'm allergic to boring," he corrected, taking a sip of his espresso. "And right now, I need that capital. There's a hostile takeover I want to execute."

He slid the contract closer to her.

"I need a wife. You need a shield."

Daphne looked at the paper, then at him.

"If you marry me," Charlton said, "you become a Bernard. The Rose family can't touch you. The tabloids will have to respect you."

"And Campbell?"

"Campbell will look like an idiot," Charlton said, a dark satisfaction coloring his tone. "He dumped you for a merger, and you upgraded to a bigger fortune the next day."

Daphne hesitated. She traced the rim of her coffee mug.

"It's transactional," she said quietly. "Just like Campbell."

Charlton flinched internally. The comparison stung like a whip. He kept his face impassive.

"It's a partnership," he said. "Honest. Transparent. Unlike Campbell, I'm putting my cards on the table."

He tapped the document.

"We help each other. One year. Then we divorce. You get a ten million dollar settlement."

Daphne choked on her coffee.

"Ten million?"

"Hazard pay," he smirked. "Being Mrs. Charlton Bernard is a full-time job. The press, the events, the family dinners."

He leaned in closer.

"Plus, we go on 'Love in the Limelight'."

Daphne blinked. "The reality show? The one Campbell and Kandice just signed onto?"

"Exactly," Charlton smiled. It was a predatory smile. "We crash their party."

"We go on the show as the newlyweds," he continued. "We show the world you're not the sad ex. You're the happy, adored wife of a billionaire."

Daphne imagined it. She imagined Campbell's face when she walked onto the set. The temptation was sweet. It tasted better than the coffee.

"But... last night," she whispered, looking down. "The sex."

Charlton shrugged, feigning indifference.

"Part of the act. Or not. Your call."

Daphne stood up. She began to pace the kitchen, the oversized shirt billowing around her.

She looked out the window at the city that had chewed her up and spit her out less than twelve hours ago.

"I need to think," she said. "This is crazy."

"Crazy works," Charlton said. "Sensible got you dumped on a stage."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card. It was heavy, made of titanium. The Centurion Card.

He held it out to her.

"Buy some clothes. Get some food. Think about it."

"I can't take this," she refused, stepping back.

"Consider it a retainer fee," he said, pressing it into her hand. His fingers brushed hers, sending a jolt of electricity up her arm.

"If you decide no, you can cut it up."

Daphne looked at the card. It felt heavy in her hand. The weight of a decision that could change everything.

"I'm going for a walk," she said.

"Take your time," Charlton said.

She headed for the elevator.

Charlton watched her go. As soon as the doors slid shut, his shoulders slumped. The confident mask fell away.

He ran a hand through his hair, anxiety tightening his chest. He was betting everything on this.